


A Year And A Day

by Dreamwhisper



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alastor/Main Female OC, Drinking, Drug Use, F/M, Swearing, dub-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:47:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29984469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreamwhisper/pseuds/Dreamwhisper
Summary: A deal cuts both ways, and even an experienced deal-maker can be too clever for his own good.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	1. How Not To Use A Ouija Board

When it came to Halloween parties, Jemma decided, bigger was far from better.

Two fifty-plus gatherings in a week were enough. Apparently three of the firm Davies Worth & Koseck’s senior partners were huge Halloween geeks and loved to try to outdo each other. Which meant for Jemma rubbing elbows with people she didn’t know, enduring subtle ass-grabs and thigh-pinches in the Sexy Witch costume foisted on her at the last minute by her new supervisor and assorted cronies. Feeling on display and somehow forced to perform drained the enjoyment from the luxury door-prizes, gourmet finger-food and liquor.

Give her a girls-only with her closest friends from high school and college any day and twice on Sundays. Renee might be slower than a sloth when it came to renovating her starter house, but after days of shiny glass-and-steel work environment there was something comforting in its squeaky floors, rattling windows and flailing-in-the-wind back door. The potluck dinner devoured earlier, they stretched out on the family room floor, pitcher of fresh strawberry daiquiris, snacks, and a pan of the state’s best hash brownies on the low coffee table. Work and money woes commiserated over, the conversation now turned to a more personal nature.

Namely, men.

“-son-of-a-bitch made a whole new profile to get around my block.” Becky swirled her daiquiri, frowning into the wine glass as if she could discern the future. “ _Again._ I can’t believe that loser!” She tossed back the rest of her drink, dabbing pink froth from her cat’s-mask whiskers with a napkin.

“You’re not alone.” Kirsten’s witch costume was not sexy; the warts and uni-brow were custom made. “Had to get the cops involved with my last one.” She rummaged through a can of Planter’s Mixed Nuts, digging out the cashews.

Anita propped her chin on her hands and her elbows on her Harley Quinn hammer. “Come play for my team!”

“No, thanks. I’m a Marvel girl.”

A raspberry from Anita, laughter from the rest. Jemma raised her own daiquiri glass. Anita topped it off from the pitcher. Becky reached around Anita, slid a brownie onto a napkin. Jemma opened and closed her hand in a “gimme” gesture; rolling her eyes, Becky passed the brownie on, claimed a second and studded it with cashews.

“Wennay stih ousigh?”

“What?” Becky stared, brownie paused halfway to her mouth.

Jemma chewed, swallowed, wiped away crumbs with her rag doll costume’s sleeve. “Renee still outside?”

“Yeah, building the fire.”

“Don’t know why we still do this,” Anita burst in. “It’s a morbid tradition, you know? Writing letters to the dead on Halloween.” Jemma looked at her. Anita’s tone was joking; her expression wasn’t.

“Because it’s _our_ tradition. Same as that.” Kirsten tilted her head toward the kitchen.

Anita scowled. “For fuck’s sake, trying to summon the Wickedest Man in the World? With a fucking Ouija board? Christ, we’re not kids anymore. Or wanna-be Wiccans.”

“It’s important to Renee and she’s our friend,” Becky said in a low voice. “As well as our _host_. You knew this would be part of the evening, Anita. And Renee wanted to be a ceremonial magician before she started the coven.”

“My point is, we haven’t been into that shit in years, so why are we still –“

Jemma silently groaned. Becky’s habit of correcting what she viewed as missteps in etiquette and Anita’s bullheadedness was going to lead to a fight – if something didn’t intervene. She glanced at Kirsten. Kirsten glanced back at her.  
“Hey, Jemma,” Kirsten said a little too loudly, “Any luck on Match.com lately?”

Jemma shot her a wry smile. “Not that good. A couple dates a month or so ago. Nothing serious.” She’d never had problems getting a date between boyfriends, and until recently never had problems finding a boyfriend. A trait that stirred just a spoonful of envy at times into their little clique.

  
She had to admit it made a good distraction, though. “I miss Dennis.”

“Three years is a long time,” Becky said sympathetically. “I kept expect you two to announce your engagement, you know?”

Jemma shrugged. “Yeah. Toss me another brownie….?” Becky obliged; Jemma caught it mid-air and took a bite. “Lately I came up with a sure-fire filter,” she said moments later. “If he asks if I was named after ‘that cartoon’, it’s a pass.”

Kirsten gave her a thumbs-up. “Holding out for Dragonriders of Pern fans.”

“Be glad you weren’t named after some Mary-Sue necromancer vampire hunter –“ Anita began.

“—who had sex at least four times –“

“—in twenty-four hours –“

“—with multiple men—“

_“And never fucking washed!”_

Jemma fell back on the floor, laughing. The chorus of their old in-joke struck her as particularly hilarious this time, enough to bring tears.

“Beck, remember when we thought that was _sooo_ hot?” Kirsten asked.

“Yeah, when we were all dumb virgins.”

Jemma scrunched up a random napkin and wiped her eyes. “Ignorant virgins,” she corrected. “Caught up in fantasies –“ A cashew bounced off her forehead

“You, especially. Vampires, werewolves….if it was a monster, you wanted to fuck it.”

“I _wanted_ the perfect demon lover,” Jemma replied loftily. “Dangerous, sexy, untamed but under my control of course, and able to give me knee-trembling, river-squirting, strike-me-blind orgasms….You know. Like the rest of you.”

Suddenly she wished she hadn’t said anything. Whether it was echoes of last spring’s break-up, her streak of bad luck at dating, the pot and booze, or just plain old horniness, that teenage self’s impossible dream sounded pretty damn good at the moment.

Hazelnuts and cashews rained down on her. “Shut the fuck up, McIntire!”

Squealing laughter, Jemma sat up and began returning fire. 

The back door banged open. For a heartbeat all four went alert, then relaxed as they recognized the sound of Renee’s boots on the kitchen linoleum. “Pit’s all set,” she announced, striding into the family room. She had a Pocket Dragon hanging like a light saber in her Ben Kenobi robe. “Last call before the Attempt.”

Anita rose, ducking her head out of Renee’s sight to hide her grimace and headed down the hall for the bathroom.

Candlelight from the kitchen counter, the decorative shelf and around the Ouija board itself provided the only light. The board was set square in the middle of the round dining table; the patina of polished wood contrasted with the plastic glow-in-the-dark planchette. Tendrils of smoke carrying scents of sage, mugwort and charcoal wafted up from incense burners.

“I already set the wards,” Renee said. “You won’t need to help.”

Becky and Jemma exchanged looks; apparently Renee had noticed Anita’s lack of enthusiasm earlier this evening. Or even further back, Jemma mused guiltily. How long ago had they stopped believing and started humoring Renee?

Becky raised an eyebrow, waggling her fingers at the Ouija board. Jemma shook her head. _Nada_ , she mouthed. The only reason Renee even continued with her pet obsession was the occasional weirdness that resulted. Things that couldn’t quite be dismissed as coincidences or circumstance. Over time they’d realized that the difference happened before a session even began. What separated a night of cramped calves and vague embarrassment from _something else_ was Jemma’s feeling of not-quite-right, of the normal world slightly off-kilter. Jemma referred to it as her “fifth and a half-sense”. It hadn’t shown her a ghost, saved her life or done anything else impressive enough to rate being a sixth.

They claimed their seats, Anita sliding last into hers, and placed forefingers on the planchette. Renee gazed around at all of them, and began.

“By the Watchtowers in the North, East, South and West, may only those of benign intent speak to us this night. Aleister Crowley, we call thee. Edward Alexander Crowley, we ask for your presence…”

The combination of hash brownie and strawberry daiquiri was taking effect. Following Renee’s voice grew harder; Jemma’s sense of time began to slip. How long had they been sitting here? Ten minutes? Twenty? An hour?

The planchette jerked to the left. Jemma jerked upright, time-distortion gone in a frisson of fear.

In a smooth, rolling motion the planchette picked out letters.

HELLO LADIES

“Aleister?” Renee’s question was nearly a shout. “Aleister?” Jemma didn’t blame her. They’d never received this clear a response before. Ever.

ALASTOR

“Alastor who?” Becky asked thinly.

JUST ALASTOR MY DEAR

The world slipped sideways. Jemma looked around the table at her friends. Becky’s face was waxy, Kirsten’s eyes huge, Anita’s face was perfectly blank and Renee… Renee’s expression contorted in several different emotions before settling between exhilaration and panic. “Why are you here if you’re not the spirit we asked for?”

BOREDOM

Anita snorted. “ _Right_. Like we can help with that. Renee, this is BS, I’ve had enough –“

“I can, Al.” The board dominated Jemma’s sight. What possessed her to speak was, in part, the desire to keep the peace between their little group…but mostly the need to bring them all back to the here-and-now, their nice, safe normal lives of work and bills and broken hearts.

“Be my demon lover – the knee-trembler, river-maker of my dreams. Ravish me for a year and a day.”

Violently the planchette shot out from beneath their fingers and zig-zagged across the board side to side, up and down its length, gathering speed. It made a circuit of the board this way three times before it raced to the center, spinning on its point, and then abruptly stopped.

Silence.

“That’s enough,” Anita said quietly. “Gonna get me a little fresh air.”

“Wait, I have to tell it goodbye –“ But Anita was already stomping out the back door.

No one spoke as Renee gingerly moved the planchette over the board’s GOODBYE and recited her ritual farewell. Or as they trooped into the back yard to the waiting fire pit. Anita was already in a lawn chair, staring out into the darkness. Renee lit the wood with the Pocket Dragon and sank into her favorite camp chair. There was a cooler to one side of the fire pit. Jemma opened it and grabbed a Mike’s Hard Lemonade before claiming her own chair, incidentally and conveniently edging away from everyone else.

“What are your plans for Thanksgiving, Renee?” Kirsten asked.

“Not sure yet…”

Jemma picked up the notepad and pen stashed under her camp chair. There wasn’t enough light to write by, really. But she supposed penmanship didn’t matter as much as intent. She doodled crosses and boxes, trying to think of something to put down besides what she did every year: _I miss you, Grandpa_.

Her pen moved across the paper. She angled it toward the fire to read.

 _I miss my friends_.

She shoved the notepad between the chair and her thigh, twisted the cap off the Mike’s and drank deeply. That was the real problem, wasn’t it? They were drifting apart. Normal, after all. None of them would see twenty-four again, let alone sixteen, so why were they trying to maintain their friendship with things they’d done a lifetime ago?

Habit, maybe. Or fear. In any case, she wanted to think about it as little as possible. Like she wanted to think as little as possible about what had happened in the kitchen. Jemma pulled free the notepad, tore out her page and tossed it into the fire.

Hours later, Jemma slipped into the kitchen. At some point Kirsten and Becky began rehashing old post-graduation gossip of the girls all of them cordially detested in high school. As a result, the awkward silence was broken, wounded feelings bandaged and they’d talked like they had in their high school sleepovers. In a fit of prudence and foresight Jemma refrained from a third (or more) Mike’s and graciously yielded to Renee the last of the hash brownies Anita fetched out. Well past “tipsy and a maybe little high” into “drunk and definitely stoned” Jemma wanted to stake her claim on the comfortable part of Renee’s sectional couch for crashing. She was in no shape to drive back to her own apartment.

She glanced at the clock on the stove. Three A.M. The witching hour. The white numbers flickered in the dancing candlelight.

Jemma halted. _But Renee blew out the candles…_

The candle above the Ouija board was lit.

Someone had relit it for atmosphere during a bathroom trip, Jemma told herself. And just forgot to mention it. Her gaze dropped to the board itself.

As though it felt her attention, the planchette began to move.

JEMMA

She couldn’t breathe.

 _My name. It knows my name it spelled my_ name _it knows_ who I am _\--_

The planchette moved again.

I ACCEPT

Jemma slammed her fist down on the board. The planchette bounced and flew off the table. The candle toppled. Jemma smacked her hand against the wick, yelping in pain, and staggered against a table chair as the kitchen plunged into darkness. She lost her balance, the linoleum slick under her shoes, and dropped to the floor. Her head struck the wall and that new torment pulsed in time with the agony in her hand.

_“So, we have a deal, then?”_

She wasn’t really hearing those words. Her inebriated, over-tired mind was making them up in her poor abused skull. Just as it had made up her name and that two-word message on the board. Her teeth chattered; she felt like was standing in a snow drift. She wanted, needed to stand up but her body wasn’t listening.

“Yeah, sure.” Her voice was a wispy croak. “Um…would you mind?” She raised her good hand. Everything else was imaginary, why not someone to help her off the floor?

_“Of course, my dear.”_

A strong grasp caught up her injured hand – her right hand -- and brought her smoothly to her feet. Ghostly green light flared where her skin and her benefactor’s touched, all but blinding her. Jemma had the impression of a palm narrower than it should be and nails sharper than normal. Of a _presence_ taller than her, the sound of faint radio static and the precise _click_ of a cane. Of a gleaming, golden, too-wide smile.

The light winked out. Jemma was alone in the dark, empty kitchen.

“What the hell just happened?” she whispered. “ _What did I just do?”_


	2. Eliminate the Impossible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The consequences of the Halloween party become clear.

Four days.

Jemma slumped against the bathroom stall’s wall. The metal was pleasantly cool to her skin. She must be getting another fever. Please, God, not until she was off work. Only a couple hours left.

Someone knocked on the stall door. “Jemma? You okay in there?”

She started. “Ah – yeah. Just enjoying the lack of paint primer, you know?” She turned the toilet roll a few times, dropped a wad of paper into the bowl and loudly got to her feet, fussing with her skirt before flushing. Then she pasted on her best possible smile and opened the stall door.

One of the legal secretaries for IP law -- Jemma couldn’t remember her name -- peered at her. “I suppose I can’t blame you for that,” she said, gaze still keen on Jemma. “Ridiculous to start repainting today instead of waiting for the weekend…do you need something, dear?”

Jemma flinched at the endearment; she couldn’t help it. Just another casualty of…whatever was happening to her. “No, thank for the offer, though! I’m good.” She moved to the counter of sinks and turned the taps of the nearest. After a moment she heard the legal secretary walk away, the inner and then the outer door of the restroom open and shut.

Jemma ran cold water over her wrists.

Her life plummeted into free-fall in four days.

She spent the morning after the party praying to the porcelain god, the better part of the afternoon debating whether to dig out her long-neglected Wiccan paraphernalia in the hopes of Doing Something, and the evening convincing herself the previous night was nothing more than bad hash and alcohol. 

Then she went to bed and the dreams started.

Explicitly sexual, increasingly realistic, and starring Chris Evans. If Jemma ever desired proof wet dreams weren’t just for men, she woke up to it. Oversleeping, she squeaked into work on time, satiated yet drained.

Then she almost fainted two hours later.

HR had a company car drive her to the nearest Urgent Care. A check of her vitals revealed her blood sugar was 378. Jemma had to insist she was not diabetic and was not going to the hospital. A compromise: a shot of fast-acting insulin, an out-of-pocket blood sugar monitor and a follow-up appointment with her regular doctor the day after.

More sex dreams that night. Tom Hiddleston was the man of the hours. Jemma woke up listless and tired. At work things haunted the shadows, appearing in her peripheral vision, vanishing when she looked at them directly. Her coworkers noticed. She felt them surreptitiously watching her.

Her doctor prescribed oral medication for insulin intolerance, supplements for potassium, iron and magnesium.

The third night Adam Driver blurred the line between ecstasy and agony. She was late for work the following morning, and needed extra breaks to sip orange juice and eat Cheez-its and Snickers to keep her blood sugar above 64.

Last night.

Last night there’d been no celebrities, just nameless men with features she couldn’t quite make out. She woke to neither rest nor pleasure, only a teeth-chattering fever. Bruises, some of them hand-shaped, mottled her shoulders and arms. Teeth marks on her breasts, welts across her thighs. A long-sleeved turtleneck sweater hid the most publically viewable bruises, Lidocaine numbed the welts and three aspirin handled the fever.

She wanted to run screaming from the law office and hide – somewhere, anywhere She used up a box of Kleenex weeping silently, keeping her head down over her monitor and willing everyone to ignore her. She couldn’t leave the building, but she could leave the word processing pool and hide in the women’s room.

She wondered if she could open the floor lounge’s window and if the fall would kill her.

The thought terrified her. She had never been suicidal. Ever.

She had to do _something_.

Jemma splashed water on her face. She didn’t recognize her own reflection in the mirror: her hair looked to be the color and consistency of sun-bleached straw and her eyes were green smudges. She looked as though she belonged in the hospital, the color of the impending fever staining her cheeks and forehead. This sweater used to be a perfect fit; now she swam in it. Her skirt felt as though it would slip to her ankles.

You cannot fall apart, she told herself. You need this job. You need to figure out what’s going on. Be calm. Don’t panic. Panicking doesn’t do any good. Get through the rest of the day.

She dried her hands and face, took a deep breath, and went back to her desk.

#

The setting sun was a crimson crescent on the horizon, twilight deepening hard and fast when Jemma finally closed her laptop. She fetched the pages from the printer and sat down in the mamasan chair, tucking her legs under her, and read her notes.

More precisely, stared at them. She didn’t need to read them. She already knew what they said.

Jemma had put on a pot of peppermint tea before starting her research. She hadn’t touched it since dumping in two honey sticks to melt, and the cup was room temperature. She drank it anyway.

“Night terror”, “sleep paralysis”, “haunting”, “possession” churned up countless hits on Google and Bing. None of them matched her experiences. Not really. Which had left a single word on the list of possibilities.

Incubus. 

Out of everything she read, one particular sentence stuck out _:_ _Some traditions hold that repeated sexual activity with an incubus or succubus may result in the deterioration of health, an impaired mental state, or even death._

That certainly described her life the last four days. Unfortunately, exorcism seemed the only cure. She didn’t belong to a church, didn’t know anyone who did and didn’t know if she’d even be believed. _Excuse me, Father, there’s an incubus making me have wild baboon sex and I think it’s killing me, could you make him stop?_ Sure. _That_ would go over well.

She rubbed her temples. There was another option. Maybe. If she wasn’t in a full psychotic break and he was part of it.

Only how to reach him?

No time to purchase a Quija board, or borrow Renee’s. Renee would ask questions Jemma didn’t want to answer. She could create a spirit board with hand-drawn letters and a wine glass, but, how could she be sure she wouldn’t contact someone – something – _else_? She needed a more direct line of communication.

The only option that came to mind was lucid dreaming, something she hadn’t experimented since her college finals days. A long shot, but what did she have to lose?

Jemma hauled out her extra comforter and afghan and spread them out on the couch; she was out of clean sheets for her bed. She ran a bath and soaked in it until her fingertips resembled raisins; afterward she pulled on clean underwear and her favorite oversized Michigan State t-shirt. Turned off the living room lights, turned on the TVLand channel for some mindless relaxing background noise. Curled up on the couch. and stared up at the ceiling.

Sleep crept over her like fog: a lakeside beach, towels, sun, tanning oil, a bikini that barely covered the essentials. A muscular male body dropped next to her on his side, face generically handsome and the bulge in his Speedo threatening to burst the spandex at the seams. “Hey,” he murmured, flashing brilliant white teeth, “how about we get you out of this?” He yanked off her bikini top.

 _This is a dream, I can change what happens_. Her old key phrase. _This is a dream. I can change what happens._

“And this?” Her bikini bottom joined the top.

Why was it hard to find the words all of a sudden? _This is a dream. I can change what happens._

“And see what pops out?” He reached for his Speedo. Her lower belly felt like warm butter.

No. No. No. Not tonight. _This is MY dream, I WILL change what happens!_

Jemma was behind him, his head in her lap. She drove the first fingers of her right hand up his nostrils and _pulled_.

The incubus screeched, arms and legs flailing. “Waitthisisnt—“

“Go back to Alastor,” Jemma said. “Tell him I want to talk.” Discussing this here and now in the dream didn’t feel like the best option.

The incubus stayed put, wheezing whines.”Youcantdothis –“

Why was he still here?! “Go back to Alastor. Tell him I want to talk.”

The incubus’ face rippled like water, morphed shape and size and looked much less human. “I –“

The exhaustion was making things worse. Had to be. Jemma twisted her fingers. “Go back to Alastor. Tell him I want to talk.”

“But –“

“Go back to Alastor NOW. _Tell him I want to talk!”_

The incubus disappeared out of her hold.

Jemma sat upright, gasping for breath. She looked around wildly.

She was alone and still wore her night clothes.

“I’m coming, Ethel!”Sanford cried from the TV set. She fumbled for the remote and hit the guide button. The time was12:27. She’d been asleep for a couple hours at most.

Weird. She didn’t remember any previous lucid dreams resisting that hard. Or resisting at all, now that she thought about it. The changes she wanted happened at once, as she wanted them to happen.

Jemma flopped back down, hugging herself. Did it matter? Just one more fucked-up thing in a long string of fucked-up things. She’d done what she could. The ‘incubus’ was sent back to himself, and with a little luck her life could go back to normal.

#

_“I understand you wish to speak with me?”_

The voice pulled her out of a blessedly dreamless sleep. She was vaguely aware the TV was off and the living room lights were on. When she’d fallen asleep that had been reversed. Covering a yawn with one hand, she sat up and opened her eyes.

And was instantly awake.

The speaker stood next to the couch. Jemma noticed two things at once: he towered over her by nearly a foot and he was not human.

Grey face with an undertone of lavender. Red-on-red eyes, the iris darker than the sclera, a monocle in the right. Short, two-toned hair, black on the ends and top and red in between. A pair of upright, fluffy sections that resembled deer ears. He wore a vibrant red suit that reminded Jemma of the Roaring 20s, complete with a black bowtie. In his left hand he held an old-fashioned stand-up microphone. He was slender built, almost gaunt.

He was smiling, and his smile was golden and too wide.

“You…you’re… you’re real,” Jemma stammered.

The being – Alastor – laughed. “As real as you are, sweetheart! I got your message and struck by its urgency I had to answer. May I sit down?”

Dumbstruck, Jemma nodded. She slid along the couch to the opposite end, afghan and comforter slipping to the floor.

Alastor, however, did not sit down. He eyed her appraisingly and snapped his fingers.

Jemma jumped; her t-shirt now reached to her calves.

“That’s better. You looked a little cold.” Alastor leaned on his microphone. “I do hope you’re enjoying your ravishment? No complaints from my end.”

“That’s…what I wanted to talk about,” Jemma began, rising from the couch. Sitting felt – vulnerable. “You’ve been… _fun_ and all, but I really need it to stop.”

“Oh? And why’s that?” Alastor began a slow stroll through the living room, studying its furniture like they were museum pieces. He stopped in front of the shelf with the Depression-era perfume bottles.

“It’s affecting my health. In fact, I think it may be killing me.”

“Ah,” Alastor said wisely. “A sometimes unavoidable side-effect of demonic contracts.”

_“….What?”_

More laughter. “I’m sure you heard me the first time. Really, my dear! You contacted me through a spirit board.” He glanced over his shoulder at her, his smile wider. Sharper. “Where did you _think_ I came from?”

Jemma didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

“As for our contract, I can refresh your memory, if that would help.” Alastor turned to face her, spinning his microphone. There was a burst of static, then voices echoed out from the centerpiece.

_“So, we have a deal, then?”_

_“Yeah, sure. Um…would you mind?”_

Alastor tapped the microphone on the floor; the voices ended. “We even shook on it, if you recall.”

The world had crashed and burned around her between heartbeats and reformed into a swirling ball of chaos, all her assumptions ground to powder and scattered on the wind, and she hadn’t noticed. Her life wouldn’t be normal ever again. Normal had never even existed. She could leap off the proverbial deep end and turn into a mindless drooling ragdoll, or she could go hang on with all she had and go with the flow.

But. Hell was real and she had –

She had made –

“I didn’t know!”

Alastor waggled a forefinger at her. “You know the old saying. Ignorance of the law is no excuse.”

“I was drunk! Stoned out of my mind!”

“Those aren’t excuses, either.” He leaned down to sniff the heliotrope on the window sill.

“You didn’t tell me it was for my soul!”

“You didn’t ask.”

“Can’t you just--I don’t know-- pretend it never happened?”

“Hmm? Oh, no, no, no! What wacky nonsense! There’s rules to these things, and no undoing what has been done.”

“But … it’s not fair,” Jemma whispered. “I don’t want to die.”

Alastor was suddenly in front of her. “Cheer up, my dear,” he said kindly, cupping her chin. “You’ll go doing something you enjoy, and that’s more than most get from life.”

She refused to cry. She focused on his hand as a distraction; the unnatural warmth, the curve of the nails even through his gloves, the –

Jemma’s eyes flew wide. She jerked out of his hold.

“He wasn’t you.”

Alastor tilted his head disturbingly far to one side, still smiling. “I beg your pardon?”

“The incubus. He wasn’t you.” She yanked down the left shoulder of her t-shirt, revealing a large, ugly black-and-purple bruise. “His hand had five fingers.

“Yours has four.”

Radio static crackled, screeched into feedback and dissipated. “Clever girl. Very observant. But it doesn’t alter the situation.”

“Doesn’t it? Why the incubus?”

Alastor shrugged. “Those particular pleasures of the flesh aren’t my forte as it is theirs. I get my kicks above the waistline, sunshine.”

“Then why did you agree to my offer?”

“I already spelled it out for you that night, sweetheart!” Canned laughter rumbled from the microphone. “Boredom. Sheer unadulterated boredom.”

Jemma rubbed her forehead, pacing. There was something hinky here, something that might let her slip out of Alastor's grasp and fly free. “Wait, wait, wait. Let me see if I have this straight.”

Alastor gestured graciously. “Proceed.”

“I made an offer, be my demon lover. You accepted but you had an incubus take your place.”

“Mm, yes. That’s right.”

“Why didn’t you suggest the incubus to begin with?”

“I would have if _someone_ hadn’t knocked the planchette over.”

“But you didn’t suggest it either before we shook hands. You could have. The details weren’t finalized until then. Were they?”

The lamplight dimmed around Alastor. “And the difference would have been?”

“Like between saying you’d give me ten years to do whatever I wanted, but only delivering ten days!” Jemma put her hands on her hips, reasonable anger and irrational indignation bubbling within her. “It’s a classic intent to deceive – you knew you weren’t going to come through and you didn’t amend the terms. You offered me a fraudulent contract from the start!”

The air grew heavier, darker, the lamplight flickering like a dying candle. Alastair’s height increased; his head and the extravagant rack of antlers it now sported brushed the ceiling. His eyes changed to glowing radio dials. Gold symbols Jemma couldn’t identify swirled and faded around his head like sparks from a fire.

 **“Young woman,”** Alastor said, **“I don’t think I like your tone.”**

Jemma shrank away. Nothing human remained in Alastor’s appearance; even his voice was distorted, deeper. “I – I’m sorry, Alastor. I lost my temper. You’re my guest, and I shouldn’t have.”

A moment later Alastor was back in his earlier form, eyes narrowed but the smile still firmly in place. “Ah, well, I suppose I can forgive the impetuosity of youth.” He tossed his microphone from hand to hand. “This once.”

_Don’t do it again. Gotcha_. “Thank you. May I ask a question?”

“You may.”

“Why do you want souls?”

He held a finger to her lips. “Some things mortals aren’t meant to know.”

“Well, I’m not selling mine cheap. Not for a…misunderstanding.”

“And by that you mean…?”

_Go big or go home_. She felt her lips curl in a smile. She didn’t know what significance the expression had for Alastor, but at the moment she wasn’t above trying to use his own methods against him. “Dissolve the contract or fulfill it as we agreed. No stand-ins, switcheroos, substitutions or replacements.”

Alastor’s expression turned thoughtful.

Jemma held her breath as the seconds stretched out. He was going to dissolve that damned contract, deep-six it, tear it up, let her go -- 

“Don’t expect my company every night. That I insist on, and no hard-and-fast – pardon the pun – schedule was mentioned. You may have a few days to recover from your current delicate state and remove my predecessor’s effluvia from you.”

For the second time that night the world crashed and burned. Jemma had no idea of the expression on her face, but Alastor’s smile widened, sharpened.

“A word of advice, _ma petit avocat_ ,” he murmured, booping her nose. “Always remember another old saying.

_“Be careful what you wish for, you might get it.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ma petite avocat -- My little lawyer (French)


	3. Paradise By the Dashboard Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alastor and Jemma have their first night together. Things don't go as expected

During the days that immediately followed, Jemma moved through life in a fog.

She worked, kept up her apartment, arranged for a night out with her friends before Thanksgiving. Signed up for a diabetes education class and stalled on a follow-up visit with her doctor. The welts, bruises and bites faded and healed. If she dreamed, she didn’t remember. The party and its aftermath took on the aspect of a years-old nightmare. Frightening but distant.

Until she came home one day and found a tent-style greeting card on her living room end table.

_The Radio Demon cordially requests_

_the company of Miss Jemma McIntire_

_this evening from the hour of 8 p.m. onward_

Jemma stared at the card and its neat penmanship from a bygone era for a long moment.

She bolted, barely making it to the bathroom in time, and vomited.

He hadn’t forgotten. Hadn’t changed his mind. Tonight he’d be here to sleep with her. To have sex with her.

To fuck her brains out. The thought terrified her. She had no idea what to expect, given his penchant for changing shape.

 _Not to mention he owns a contract for your soul._ Did that contract give him the power to take literal control of her, sexually and otherwise? She wished she was brave enough to ask. But she wasn’t. She was going to play it safe: no demands, nothing that would provoke a fight.

Jemma rinsed her mouth, swung about and turned on the bathtub taps. She had walked through the door a little past 6:30; it wouldn’t be the hour-long soaks she preferred of late, but she wanted – needed – a bath.

_…remove my predecessor’s effluvia from you._

She bared her teeth. She’d done nothing but for days.

Her alarm clocked showed 7:08 when she padded into her bedroom, towel knotted around her and drying her hair with a second. He was _not_ going to find her naked; she’d be too vulnerable, in more ways than one. She pulled on a peach sweater dress, the simplest thing she owned, and fresh underwear. No socks. She didn’t wear socks in her apartment.

She should eat, but she wasn’t hungry. Moreover she didn’t want to risk throwing up again. She settled on half a bowl of dry Cheerios to quiet her gut. After she retreated to the living room, alternating between staring out the window and pacing.

She turned on the cable guide at 7:51 and watched the minutes click by.

8:00

The atmosphere grew heavier, darker, though the lights were still on. Dangerous. The hairs on the back of her neck rose, and she had the sudden urge to flee _._

The TV shut off.

No lights, no smoke. He was simply there, inches away.

“Hello, Jemma.”

He looked the same, though his microphone was missing. His smile was the one she remembered from the Halloween party: genial and giving nothing away.

“Hello, Alastor.” The aura of darkness and danger centered on him – emanated from him. Something she hadn’t noticed before. Probably from shock.

“You look darling.” Another shock, albeit a small one. He took her right hand and kissed it. “Shall we?”

“Not the bedroom,” Jemma said hastily. “I’m – I’m still not sleeping there yet.”

“As you wish. Your couch seems cozy enough.”

The next Jemma knew they were naked on the couch. Alastor bore her back onto the cushions. He spread her legs and positioned himself over her.

“ _Wait!_ ” Jemma slid a knee up between his. Alastor reached for her again.

“Don’t worry, dear, a gentleman rests his weight on his elbows.”

“That’s not it– I’m not – you know – _ready_.” She managed to bring up her other knee.

He peered at her through his monocle quizzically.

“I’m dry as a bone!”

“I…see.”

_Somehow I doubt that_. Despite his outward manner, he didn’t seem to have a lot of experience. Was he gay? Disinterested in her? Was there some old-fashioned chivalry going on here – “Close your eyes and think of England” – if a demon could have such a thing?

Much as she’d love to know, it didn’t matter. It was obvious to Jemma who was going to have to do the lion’s share of the work, and it wasn’t Alastor.

 _This wasn’t the deal I made._ But it was the deal she had.

“Here.” She patted his bicep. He leaned away and she took the opportunity to prop up on her arm. “Sit up. I want to show you something.”

“Which is?”

“What I like.”

She perched on his lap, knees on other side of him, his thighs radiating the same unusual warmth she noted the first time he touched her. He still smiled down at her; the nimbus of dark energy never abated. All his skin was grey like his face. Faint cross-shaped scars scattered across his chest and shoulders. His stomach was flat, his hips narrower than she expected. She glanced lower. From what she could see he _looked_ normal – no multiple anything, no oversized monstrosity in length or girth. Jemma sagged a little in relief and reached for his right hand.

She circled the palm with her thumb, traced his fingers from base to tip. His nails were more like claws. They would make things tricky.

“I can grow a fifth finger if you wish.”

“Hmm? Oh, not necessary.” She glanced at Alastor. He was still smiling – of course – but one eyebrow arched. “I notice hands. I like hands on men. And shoulders. And chests…“

“ And the obvious?”

Jemma laughed, entwining his fingers with his. “It’s fun, but it’s funny-looking.” The color on his face seemed to deepen. A blush? Trick of the light. Had to be. She slid his hand down her stomach to her vulva, parting the lips and guiding him to her clitoris. She moved his fingers in a slow, rolling motion, angling his claws safely away.

The aura pulsed briefly. His hand twitched, stilled, then continued. Jemma took hold of

his left hand. She had the crazy though he was going to jerk it away, but he didn’t. She traced the areola and nipple of her right breast with his claws first, then his fingertips

“This will…solve your problem?”He reversed the circling, going widdershins, on his own, switching up the pressure. The smile appeared a little flat. His gaze was fixed on her face..

“In time.” She rested on her own hands.

“Other methods exist?”

“Mhm.” She ducked her head and managed to lick his index finger.

“What was that for?”

Jemma looked at him. _Because I’m not used to being used as a sex toy. Or using someone else as one._ “Seemed like a good idea at the time,” she said weakly. Something in his gaze said he didn’t quite believe her, but he didn’t press. Jemma rocked against his right hand, her breathing growing ragged. Alastor’s ministrations were taking effect.

He brushed a claw tip softly and quickly across her, and Jemma gasped.

“Oho.” Alastor sounded amused, even a little smug. “I see what you mean, dear. Well, then –“

He had her lying on her back and spread-legged again. This time Jemma didn’t object.

He did try to bear his weight on his elbows. The problem was the couch was “cozy” not “roomy” for their activity. Jemma had to wrap her legs around his waist and her arms around his back. Twice Jemma found her limbs in their original position. The third time Alastor apparently decided the constant back-and-forth wasn’t worth fighting over.

Or perhaps he was enjoying himself too much at the moment.

The beginning had been mechanical: no touching except where their bodies joined. When she tried to move with him, he stopped her. Barely made a sound. Now he muttered randomly in French, Jemma swore he inched them toward the end of the couch with every third thrust and –

Alastor shoved hard against her, groaned, and sank down onto her. The energy around him pulsed. Jemma turned her head toward the back of the couch with a shiver.

She kept her arms around Alastor, listening to his breathing return to normal. _At least one of us had a good time._ This was the awkward part of sleeping with someone you barely knew: post-coital conversation. In this case, she couldn’t think of any question that wasn’t stupid or intrusive. Greatly daring, she ran a hand along his upright hair.

A tired, low sigh from Alastor. “They’re not ears.”

Jemma swallowed laughter. He sounded so irritated and so resigned. “I’d wondered.”

He returned her hand to her side. “You could have asked.”

“Would you have answered?”

“Maybe.” He stood, stretching. “I trust you found our time together so far satisfactory?”

 _Shit_.

He glanced at her sidelong. “Jemma.”

She groped for some little white lie. The closest she could manage was, “It was okay.”

“ _Okay_?”

She nodded, scooted backward until she rested against the arm of the couch.

“Only _okay_?”

What was going on? “Alastor, you said it yourself…how sex wasn’t your strong suit. It’s like any other skill, you need to work at it. ..but if you’re not interested, you’re not interested. Maybe you should just dissolve the contract and be done with it.”

 _“No.”_ Alastor was dressed, his microphone back with him. “I’ll do no such thing. Don’t bring the subject up ever again.” His smile was crescent-thin and edged in hemlock..

Her perceptions shifted; her fifth-point-five sense flared. Something was not-quite-right with the contract? With Alastor? She couldn’t tell, and he was expecting some response. She dropped her gaze and nodded.

“You're a little peaked, sweetheart. We can’t have that.” Alastor bent down and peered at her closely, turned her head to look at him. “Remember the old saying about practice making perfect?”

 _Oh, god._ She nodded again.

“Yes, indeedy! We’re going to be doing _quite_ a lot of practicing of your favorite skill!” He tilted her chin with a forefinger. “So keep your strength up, clever girl.”

He was gone.

Jemma covered her face with her hands.


End file.
